


Hearts Grow Fonder

by Isanes



Category: Donald Strachey - Richard Stevenson
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isanes/pseuds/Isanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A god, a weasel, and an unholy lack of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Grow Fonder

"Tell me again how many of these asses you've kissed," I murmured into Timmy's ear. He arched an eyebrow at me, his pleasant smile never wavering.

"Are you speaking metaphorically, or are you just fishing for fantasy material?"

"Oh, fantasy," I answered. "Definitely fantasy. I need something to occupy my mind. If I have to smile and nod at one more blithering politician..." I tried to grimace as inconspicuously as possible. "My smiling muscles are going to seize up on me."

"We can't have that," said Timmy, sounding amused.

"Uh-uh," I agreed. "Especially considering what other uses I put those muscles to."

Timmy's eyes gleamed. "True enough." He looked around, no doubt searching for any nooks or crannies in which we might be able to spend a minute or two of private time, but I knew he wouldn't find anything. I'd cased the place out myself when we first arrived. No nooks. No crannies. Not even a sprig of mistletoe hidden in the bunches of green weeds that had been scattered liberally around the room.

No nooks meant no nookie, and also nowhere to hide from prying politicos swilling cheap champagne and eating cheese-crab-liver paste spread thinly on crackers ritzier than any you'd find at Safeway. Nowhere to escape the mind-numbing conversations on topics as varied as politics, politics, the latest tax scandal, and politics.

Timmy must have read my mind, because he said, "I really do appreciate you coming with me tonight."

I looked into those earnest, grateful eyes. Eyes which, once fixed on me, tended to make me say things like, "Yes, dear, I'd love to accompany you to your office Christmas party instead of doing something more fun, like poking myself with a sharp stick." And mean it.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the eyes in question were attached to a rather handsome face, which included a mouth that was no slouch in the muscle department itself. And that, in turn, was attached to the rest of the body of the man I loved.

What could I say? I was a sucker for Timmy.

"I'm happy to be here," I said, and in that moment, with Timmy beaming at me, I was.

"You'll be even happier when I get you home," he said, his voice full of promise, and I felt a warmth fill me that had nothing to do with the champagne.

"Why is that?" I asked as non-chalantly as I could. "You going to kiss my ass?"

"Mm," said Timmy, considering. "I could do that. And then I might—"

"Timothy!" a voice called out, making Timmy jump and me wish I'd brought my gun along. I turned to see a weasel making its way towards us. Or, if not an actual weasel, then definitely something rodent-like, with a pointy nose and bristly hair and an ill-fitting gray suit.

Timmy sighed under his breath, then pasted on a smile and reached a hand out to the weasel, who shook it enthusiastically before turning beady eyes on me.

"Don," said Timmy politely. "This is Paul Connor. Paul, my partner, Don Strachey."

My own hand was grasped by a small, clammy one.

"I did some contract work for the Senator last month," the weasel—Paul—said. "I worked quite closely with Timothy here. Quite a man, your partner."

My smiling muscles were hurting again. "He is indeed," I said through teeth as unclenched as I could get them. I wasn't liking the way he was looking at Timmy a whole lot. And Timmy, damn him, just stood there, no doubt being wildly entertained. Though the thought of Timmy and the weasel was just ridiculous, not to mention....

A second man had joined us, standing close to Paul and being introduced in turn, and I lost my train of thought.

Now, this man I could picture with Timmy. Vividly. Or with any number of guys who fuelled my non-Timmy fantasies. Hell, he could fuel a bunch of them all by himself.

Tall, dark-haired, eyes like charcoal, straight, pearly teeth and an unmistakable vibe proclaiming that his teeth were the only straight thing about him.

Paul the weasel was speaking, introducing the man as George Jeffries, his partner, and I blinked, giving Paul another once-over, wondering what the hell I'd missed the first time. The weasel and an Adonis like George?

A slight cough drew my attention back to Timmy, who was smirking at me, the bastard.

Anticipating he usual comparison of spousal jobs, and not wanting to get into a discussion of the trials and tribulations of being a gay detective in Albany, I beat the weasel to the punch and asked George what it was he did for a living. With my luck, he'd turn out to be an accountant, with a two-second job description and a fascination for amateur sleuthing.

"I'm a writer," the man said with a self-effacing smile.

No, my knees did not turn to jello.

Timmy stifled a cough, and said, interested, "Really? What do you write?"

"Oh, I freelance," George said, waving a dismissive hand. "A little of this, a little of that. Magazine articles, a couple of pieces in the Advocate, a few short stories here and there."

"Don't be so modest," said Paul, and I winced. A gushing weasel was not a pretty thing. He turned to Timmy and said, conspiratorially, "He's really quite brilliant. The new Hemmingway, with a touch of Wilde."

"Wilde, huh?" I asked, sneaking another long glance at George, who was looking a little put out by this description. Though, really, 'wild' was how I'd describe him, too. Optimistically speaking.

Paul was going on. "Really, the passion in his writing almost makes me want to ravish him, sometimes."

Timmy raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like a bad thing."

George cleared his throat. "Paul, I don't think they're really interested..."

"Well, it's complicated. George and I aren't... That is, we don't..."

My interest pricked up, as did Timmy's eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I thought you and George were a couple."

"Oh, we are," said Paul, looking at his partner, who looked resigned. "George and I are together in every way that counts. We just happen to be celibate."

I wished I had a glass of champagne in my hand just so I'd have something to choke on. Even Timmy looked nonplussed. "Celibate?"

"Oh, yes," said Paul earnestly. "We both believe that abstinence strengthens our character and brings our relationship to a much deeper level."

I looked at George to see how he was handling this travesty, but he looked to all appearances like he was going along with it.

"It does wonders for my writing," he was saying. "I can focus that energy on creativity, and transpose my physical passions directly into my work."

I snorted. "See, to my mind, that's a middle step that really shouldn't be skipped."

Paul smiled a bit condescendingly, grating on my already raw nerves. "Well, I admit it might not work for some couples."

The unspoken implication, of course, being that it took a strong, committed couple to attempt something like this, and that Timmy and myself were not such a couple. I looked at Timmy, hoping to see some indignation written on his features, but to my alarm he looked more contemplative than anything else.

And Timmy contemplating celibacy was not something that I wanted to see in any situation, with the possible exception of my imminent incarceration for ten to twenty years.

At this inauspicious moment there was the sound of clanking glasses, and my eyes threatened to glaze over as the Senator stepped towards a podium in the corner. Great, I thought. Speeches. What a perfect way to top off the evening.

*****

Some time later, I reconsidered. Speechlessness was an even better cap for the evening. And I had managed to render myself and Timmy pretty damn speechless, if I did say so myself. At the very least, I thought smugly as I pounded into Timmy's warm and welcoming body, I had apparently driven any thoughts of celibacy out of his head.

Timmy's legs tightened around my waist and I applied myself to the task at hand, trying to drive the thought of this evening's festivities out of my own head. Not one to celebrate Christmas at the best of times, I had somehow got a carol or two stuck in my head, and tended to time my thrusts to the chorus of 'Deck the Halls'. 

Making Yuletide gay, indeed.

As I finished with a crescendo of Silver Bells, Timmy shuddering his own completion underneath me, I relaxed into a boneless heap, and smiled sleepily as Timmy brushed a kiss across my forehead.

He must have been thinking along the same lines as my earlier pondering, because he said, "I gave up on the idea of abstinence when I gave up on the idea of being a priest."

"Thank God," I said, and he laughed. "I dunno," I added magnanimously, nuzzling his bare shoulder. "We could try it, if you wanted to bring our relationship to a deeper level. On a, you know, part-time basis."

"Part-time abstinence?"

"Sure," I said. "Absolutely no sex between two and two-fifteen on Thursdays."

"Alternate Thursdays."

"In February."

"Every other leap year."

"There you go," I said, burrowing more deeply into his warmth. "I can feel our relationship getting deeper already." 

I hummed a few bars of 'White Christmas' and felt Timmy smile against the top of my head.

"Goodnight, Rudolph," he murmured.

*****

I glared out my office window, taking the patter of sleet on the glass as a personal insult. Any lingering traces of Christmas cheer or New Year's festivities were long gone, and the January blahs had settled on me like a lead weight.

So I was in no great frame of mind when a hesitant knock sounded on the door and, at my ruff call to enter, I found my office suddenly infested with weasels.

Well, one weasel, to be specific. A wet, shivering weasel who was dripping on the floor, bringing a little bit of the despised winter into my none-too-cozy work space.

"Mr—" I wracked my brain for something to call him besides 'weasel', and it came to me. "Connor, right? What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Strachey," he said. "Donald. I... Timothy mentioned that you sometimes do work of an investigative nature."

I looked around the office, manfully biting back a retort that, no, obviously, I was a neurosurgeon. Then I nodded. "From time to time."

He looked slightly relieved. "In that case, I was wondering if I could retain you."

I had a brief vision of being retained, not by Connor but by his partner. Leather straps were involved. I blinked and brought my mid back to the topic at hand, gesturing to the empty chair.

"Well, then, have a seat and tell me what the problem is."

He sat, holding his briefcase tightly on his lap, and cut right to the chase. "I think someone is trying to kill me."

I raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

"Well, there were the letters, then that horrible phone call, and the car last week, and—honestly, Mr. Strachey, two hundred dollars for dry-cleaning! My poor suit will never be the same!"

I stared at him. "Your dry cleaner's trying to kill you?"

Connor looked shocked. "Oh, no! It can't be Marcel! I mean, certainly, he might have disguised his voice on the phone, but the car was an automatic and he wouldn't be caught dead in anything but a standard."

He was almost glaring at me now and I fought the sudden irrational urge to apologize for having maligned Marcel's character. Besides, if the Marcel he was talking about was the one I knew, he was indeed extremely particular about his... rides.

"Look," I said instead with a patience that surprised me. "Let's start again, from the beginning."

He fumbled his briefcase open and pulled out a handful of crumpled sheets of paper. On each were pasted a selection of undeniable threats, the words clumsily and amateurishly cut from newspapers and glossy magazine pages. I glanced through them, noting the usual, generic threats: GOD WANTS YOU TO DIE, and ALL FAGS GO TO HELL, not to mention the perennial classic, GET AIDS AND DIE, YOU HOMO. Charming stuff but, sadly, not unknown to members of the gay community.

"You received these at home?" I asked.

"All but that one," he said, pointing to the AIDS one without looking at it more than he had to. "That one was sent to me at work."

His voice was clipped and angry, and I could sympathize with this, at least. I knew how hard it was to get contracts, let alone government contracts, especially with the dreaded gay stigma hanging over your head. Some of us didn't give a shit, of course, but we were still in the minority.

"Okay," I said. "Now, you said something about a phone call?"

Connor nodded. "Last Wednesday night. George was out and I was expecting the call to be from him, telling me when he'd be home. Instead..." He took a shaky breath and I willed him to keep it together, for both our sakes. "Instead, it was a terrible voice, telling me I was going to burn."

Again, not unheard of, though by no means pleasant, either.

"Right. And the car?"

"Two nights ago. I'd walked down to pick up my dry cleaning—there, you see, it couldn't have been Marcel, he was still at the store!—when the car came out of nowhere. A blue car, I think, or gray. It swerved and came right at me; if I hadn't dropped everything and jumped into the snow bank..." He shuddered, either at the thought of the close call or at the header he'd taken into the snow.

"You weren't hurt?" I asked.

"No," he admitted. "But the... the bastard ran over my good suit. I had to take it right back to Marcel."

"Hence the two hundred bucks," I finished for him. "We could get Marcel for highway robbery, if nothing else, but I admit the car angle is pretty worrying. Did you go to the police?"

"No! I mean, it's not like I have actual proof. And they're, well, not really predisposed to help people like us, are they?"

I saw his point. Granted, the police force was taking steps in the right direction, but they still had a fair ways to go.

Connor was watching me expectantly. "So, Mr. Strachey, will you take the case?"

I made a show of examining my schedule book, angled in such a way that he couldn't see how very blank the paper was. I named my fee, he accepted, and before I knew it, I was working for a weasel.

*****

Timmy had his nose stuck in a book when I got home. I took a moment to inhale the scent of something savory wafting from the kitchen, then went to join Timmy on the couch to collect some much-needed spousal affection.

"Hey, sweetheart," I said, and he tilted his head towards me, his lips brushing mine warmly. Then he turned his attention back to the book.

I watched him for a moment, then said, casually, "So, how was your day?"

He grunted, turning a page.

"Mine was fine, thanks for asking."

Nothing. I glanced at the cover of the book, wondering what had him so enthralled, but his fingers covered he title and most of the illustration. Something about men; no doubt a philosophical treatise of some sort. Or gay porn.

"So, your buddy Connor came to see me today," I said. "I don't suppose you know how to get weasel residue out of upholstery?"

"Hmmm?"

"Of course," I added thoughtfully. "I hear weasels are good eating. That's always an option. We could barbecue..."

Aha. The side of his mouth had twitched. Almost imperceptibly, true, but it was a good sign nonetheless.

"Are you suggesting we eat Paul Connor?"

I shrugged. "Why not? Do you have any ideas for anything else I could eat?" I waggled my eyebrows and leered at him.

He laughed. "Supper first. Then, if you're still hungry, we'll see what else is available for eating."

I growled and made a grab for him, but he evaded me. "Stew first," he said firmly.

As I followed him into the kitchen, I grumbled, "You know, you have a really warped sense of priorities."

"Must be the Jesuit influence."

The stew was excellent; almost—almost—worth waiting for dessert. As we ate, I motioned towards the book he'd brought along.

"So, what had you so captivated, anyway?"

"Funny you should put it that way," he said, turning the book over so that the cover faced me. My eyebrow lifted at the title, the words 'Men in Chains' embossed on the cover. Another part of my anatomy almost lifted at the accompanying picture, a pair of buff, handsome men wearing leather straps and little else, and obviously taking great pleasure in each other's company. I'd been right the second time. Gay porn it was.

"A little light reading?"

"Oh, parts of it are pretty heavy," said Timmy. "Especially this story. " He opened the book and handed it to me. "Note the author."

I noted it, not terribly surprised to see that it was our pal Connor's boyfriend George. "Huh," I said, skimming the text. It seemed to be the usual type of jerk-off material. "Well, he did say he wrote a little of this, a little of that."

"Make that a lot of this and that," said Timmy, and a particularly explicit scene caught my eye.

"Certainly sublimates his passions pretty well, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes indeed," Timmy said.

I read on a little more. The main character was apparently attempting to write his name in welts across his lover's ass. Hopefully his name wasn't Theofrastus, or something. No, there was in 'i' in the name somewhere-it was being dotted by a star tattoo on the lover's right cheek.

Timmy as watching me, amused. "Giving you any ideas?"

"One or two," I said, then tossed the book aside. "But first, I believe we were talking about dessert?"

*****

"Oh, sure," said Marcel brightly. "I remember that night. Wednesday. Poor Paulie came in looking like he'd been rode hard and put away wet. And not in a good way," he added, dropping me a wink. I smiled back. Marcel was an okay guy, not adverse to being rode hard himself, if I recalled correctly. I didn't actually remember much about that week...

"I don't know why you want to talk about that stick in the mud, though," he added, reaching out to stroke the back of my hand with his long fingers. "How have you been?"

"Fine," said, giving his hand a squeeze before letting it go "I'm fine, and so is Timmy. You know, my husband."

He sighed good-naturedly. "Can't blame a girl for trying." His eyes lost some of their mischief. "So, what do you want to know about Paulie?"

"Have you known him long?"

"He's been bringing his clothes here for a couple of years."

"And is your relationship strictly business?"

Marcel snorted. "Honey, if you think I can compete with that Greek god he's got in his bed... Not," he added with a frown, "that they're getting much use out of that bed, from what I hear."

I nodded. "Sounds like a weird situation to me."

"Sounds like a crime against humanity to me."

"You mean that old George is going to waste?"

He looked at me with a strange expression. "George? He's an ass. Believe me, there's nothing about him that's going to waste. I'm talking about Paulie."

I stared at him. Marcel the wild and Paul the weasel? "The stick in the mud?"

He blushed. "Well, sometimes we all need to settle down with a good stick, don't we?"

I thought about Timmy, my own stick, and bit back a fond smile. "I guess you're right." Then, feeling that we'd veered a little off-track, I said, "So, what you said about George—you're suggesting that he's sleeping around?"

"I'm not suggesting anything," said Marcel, a little too primly to be believable. "However, if you were to go to a certain Third Avenue watering hole on Wednesday nights, and ask for a certain Mikey..."

"Mikey," I repeated, searching my memory for anyone of that name, Nothing came to mind, but I had been out of the scene for a while now. "Let me guess—he'll eat anything?"

Marcel grinned at me. "He isn't the only one, sweetie."

*****

"So, you escaped with your honor intact?" asked Timmy in bed that night. It was a fair question; he knew Marcel, too.

"Only slightly singed around the edges," I assured him. "Besides, I'm not the one he's really Jonesing for."

"Ah. The incomparable George?"

"Think shorter and more rodent-like."

"Paul?" He blinked. "You're kidding. And he doesn't think that Gorge will have something to say about that?"

"He suggested that George might have his mouth too full to say much of anything to anyone. Especially on Wednesday nights."

"Hmm," said Timmy thoughtfully. "That certainly puts an interesting spin on the strong, celibate relationship, doesn't it?"

"I guess paradise isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Wednesdays, did you say? Paul told me once that on Wednesdays, George gives writing seminars."

"Is that what kids are calling it these days?"

"Funny." He reached down and tugged the blanket up; we were starting to cool off after our earlier exertions. "But aren't you straying a bit from you original investigation?"

I shrugged, running my foot lightly through the soft hair on his calf. "All I've got to go on is a grayish car, automatic and probably domestic. Only a few million of them in the country. I might as well see what I can dig up from the boyfriend angle."

"You think maybe George's lover is trying to kill Paul?"

Before I could answer, the phone rang. Shooting me a concerned look—it was pretty damned late—Timmy reached for the receiver. He spoke for a moment, and scribbled something on the pad of paper he kept on his bedside table. I snuck a peek.

P. Connor  
City General  
Attack - knife? Back?  
ICU

The case had suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.

*****

I knew, or at least strongly suspected, that George was a cheater and a first-class prick, but the moment he turned those gray eyes on me I still felt weak in the knees. And in parts slightly north.

The waiting room was empty except for us, and I took a seat beside George, resisting the impulse to take his hand and offer him comfort.

In fact, he didn't look like he was in particular need of comfort. He sat stoic and impassive, though you never knew with writers. He either didn't care, or he was a powder keg of suppressed emotions ready to explode at any second. At the moment, I wasn't sure which of the two to brace for.

"What's the news?"

"He's still in surgery," said George softly. 

Timmy came in, bearing cups of coffee. He looked at me inquiringly, but I shook my head. No news. George took one of the cups with a nod of thanks and sipped it quietly.

I'd had a brief chat with the authorities when we'd gotten to the hospital. Enough to discover that Connor had been stabbed in the back. And to tell the detective in charge—not one I'd had any experience with, more's the pity; I hated having to break in new blood—what little I knew about the threats he had received. I'd made the usual reassurances that I'd share whatever information I discovered, was made an empty promise of reciprocation in return, yadda, yadda. 

From George's calm demeanor, it didn't look a though they'd got around to 'questioning' him yet. So I thought I'd beat them to it.

"So," I said casually. "Any idea who'd want to hurt Paul?"

Timmy gave me a sharp look, but George merely looked blank. "No," he said. "Of course not. Paul is so sweet and innocent; he wouldn't hurt a fly."

I declined to point out that people who wouldn't hurt flies usually weren't the target of planned attacks "You can't think of anyone with grudge?"

He shook his head, and Timmy said, "He's not the sort to make enemies. Which is fairly rare, for a government contractor."

"The notes he got," said George, "and the phone call he told me about. It sounds more like some asshole gay-basher."

I'd though about that, hard. but something about it seemed off to me. "He's fairly low-key about his lifestyle. Doesn't cruise, isn't out at work. Not the sort to attract that sort of attention. You never noticed any altercations?"

George shook his head. "Nothing. Paul doesn't like to go out much."

I was looking for a way to ask how often George got out—politely, since Timmy was nearby, waiting to shoot me a spousal death glare—when a doctor entered the room.

"Are you here for Mr. Connor?" he asked. He didn't seem surprised to see us there, and to his credit he didn't bat an eyelash at the fact that the significant other was male.

He explained that Paul's surgery had gone well, that he was resting comfortably, and that he would no doubt be unconscious for a large portion of the next few days. He aimed this last bit at me, as though he expected me to rush to Paul's room and interrogate him. Damn; my reputation must have preceded me. I knew a couple of nurses on duty who must have ratted on me.

"Plenty of rest and peace and quiet," I said. "Right." I'd let the cops do the dirty work; it was doubtful that they'd get anything of use out of Paul anyway.

George thanked the doctor, then got to his feet.

"Mr. Connor won't be able to have visitors for a while yet," the doctor said.

"That's all right," said George. "You said he won't be awake for a few days; there's not much I can do here." He shrugged into his jacket and turned to me. "Thanks for coming."

I nodded speechlessly as George followed the doctor out the room.

"He's not leaving?" said Timmy.

"Looks like it to me."

Timmy took my hand. "If that was you in there, they'd have to drag me from your bedside kicking and screaming."

I squeezed his fingers. "I guess our relationship just isn't deep enough."

Frankly, old George was starting to look less attractive by the second.

*****

I took a sip of my beer and let the thump of the bass wash over me. It was Wednesday night, the dance floor was packed with beautiful, gyrating men, and I was looking for Mikey.

I'd asked around about him already, and was met mostly by amused or speculative looks. I'd been assured that he'd be here, though, and I'd certainly spent time waiting in less decorative places than this one.

By the time I'd turned down the fifth pretty young thing with lust in his eyes, I was starting to wax philosophical about married life and monogamy. I felt a tentative hand on my shoulder and turned to deal with number six; I found myself looking instead into a pair of brilliant blue eyes and polite dismissal died on my lips.

"I hear you've been looking for me."

The voice was low and smoky and I almost blurted out, "All my life," before coming back to my senses. "You Mikey?"

"That's right."

"I'm a friend of Marcel's. Can I buy you a beer?"

"I got a boyfriend."

"I got a husband. Just one beer."

He nodded, and sat down while I made my way to the bar. I thought it a good sign that he was still there when I got back.

"You're Strachey," he said after a couple of swallows.

Well, that took care of introductions.

"Marcel told me you'd been talking to him," he continued.

"That's right," I said. "About how someone's gunning for Paul Connor."

"I don't know anything about that," said Mikey with a shrug. "I've never met the guy."

"How about George Jeffries? You know him?"

Mikey smiled tightly. "I might."

"Do you maybe know him on Wednesday nights?"

He looked around. "I don't see him here, do you?"

"The night's till young."

So was Mikey. Young and very pretty, and somehow familiar. I'd be willing to bet a year's pay that I'd never met the kid before—I sure as hell would have remembered those eyes—but something about him was tugging at the back of my mind.

Then those eyes widened and I turned to see George himself making his way towards us. And then everything clicked into place.

George was eyeing us warily. I was eyeing him back. Mikey was finishing his beer, then standing up.

"Did you want to know anything else, Strachey?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Is the star tattoo on your right cheek or your left one?"

He stared at me, then at George, then without a word he turned and made his way back to the dance floor, where he was swallowed up in no time.

"I think we'd better talk," said Gorge in my ear, and my knees only gave the slightest quiver at the sensation.

"After you," I said, motioning too the door.

We walked to my car in silence. Knowing that I'd get through this chat a lot more comfortably with something to distract me from George, I started the car after we got in.

"Were are we going?" asked George. "The hospital?"

"No," I said. "Nowhere in particular."

"I figured you'd think I should be with Paul."

I shrugged. "It's not my place to say, is it?"

"I've seen you with that 'husband' of yours. It's what you'd do. What any good boyfriend would do."

I kept my eyes fixed on the road. "And are you a good boyfriend?"

I caught the smirk out of the corner of my eye. "Paul thinks so."

"So does Mikey, it would seem," I pointed out.

The smirk disappeared almost audibly. After a moment, George said, sulkily, "Paul's not my boyfriend, no matter what he thinks. No sex? He's a roommate who likes to cuddle."

"And abstinence doesn't do it for you."

He snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. Do I look like the kind of guy who gets off on not getting off?"

We were stopped at a light so I chanced a glance over. He was slouched as far as the car's cramped quarters allowed. His hands were resting on his thighs, close to his crotch. Another inch or two... Eyes front and center, I told myself firmly.

"Not at first glance, no," I said as the light turned green. "So why stay with Paul, then?"

Instead of answering, he said, "Are you taking me home?"

Two could play at that game. Instead of answering him, I said, "I read one of your stories. Pretty hot stuff."

"Thanks." He actually sounded pleased.

"I especially liked Mikey's starring role."

He chuckled. "You know what they say—write what you know."

"Right," I said, turning at the next intersection. I still hadn't made up my mind as to where I was taking him. I still hadn't ruled out taking him home. And following him in. But I was starting to put two and two together, and I needed him to check my math.

"Write what you know, eh? Let me guess," I hazarded. "You're currently writing about a neurotic geek who's being pursued and threatened by a mysterious homophobe."

"Makes for a good story, wouldn't you say?"

Oh, yeah. Things were starting to add up, all right.

"And for inspiration, you, what, helped things along?"

"There's nothing like a good dose of reality to spice up a s story."

"Reality," I said in disgust. " The pone call, the car accident, everything happened on Wednesday nights, when you were conveniently out of the way."

"That was bad planning on my part," George admitted. "They had their desired effect, but I wasn't there to capture Paul's immediate reaction. Just the aftermath."

"So you stabbed him? For what, more realism?"

"There are some things," he said softly, "that even a great writer can't explain without first experiencing. it. Do you know the sound a knife makes when it penetrates human flesh? The blood, burning hot on your hand? The copper scent and taste of it?"

"Yes," I said shortly "I do."

"But not when it's your own lover's life literally in your hands. I know that all now. I can put it into words, and those words will make me famous"

I'd finally made up my mind. And it had been an easy decision after all. I found a likely spot on the street and parked the car. In the sudden silent darkness, I said, "So with Paul out of the way, now what?"

"Paul's nothing," he said. "He's served his purpose; that story's been written. It's time to move on to bigger and better things."

"Such as?" I was curious in spite of myself.

His grin flashed brightly in the light from the streetlamp. "A novel," he said. "Maybe a series of them Detective novels."

I felt something clench in my belly.

"Detective novels?" I said with a mouth suddenly dry.

"Yeah," he said. "Real gritty stuff. With a hot gay private eye in the lead."

He moved his hand from his thigh to mine. It tingled. "Really?"

"Of course," he continued, moving closer. "I'll have to do a lot of in-depth research."

His breath was sweet and warm on my face.

"Under cover, you mean?" I gasped.

He chuckled. "Tell me, Don, do you own a pair of handcuffs?"

I managed to get out, "As a matter of fact—" before his mouth was on mine. As far as kisses went, it was one of the better ones I'd ever experienced. Warm and just the right amount of wet.. Losing myself in it for a moment, I fumbled towards my pants.

"Why, Don," he said with a grin as he pulled away. "This is so sudden"

He reached for my zipper just as I pulled my famous handcuffs out of my pocket. "On the contrary," I said as I snapped them on his wrist. "You've had this coming for a while now."

He looked at me blankly. "I don't understand."

"Besides," I continued, gesturing out the window. "Even I'm not crazy enough to make out in a car parked outside a police station."

"You wouldn't."

"But just think of all the in-depth research you'll be able to do. I hear prison porn is really popular these days..."

*****

"So," said Timmy later that night, after I'd told him about George, omitting a few details here and there. "He orchestrated all this so he could put it in a novel?"

I shifted a bit on the bed, getting a bit more comfortable. "Yup." I would have said more, but I was distracted by Timmy's earlobe, which was quite close to my mouth. I licked it. Delicious.

Timmy hummed contentedly and, encouraged, I moved down a bit. Nipples—even tastier. After I had lingered there as long as Timmy would let me, I dove for his navel, earning a ticklish giggle and a light thump on the head.

I licked warm trails up his thighs, the short hairs there tickling my nose. Slowly but surely, I was replacing the taste of George's mouth with Timmy's skin, which was frankly much more to my liking.

Finally, I moved in for the kill. Without ceremony, I took his hard cock into my mouth, sucking it down as far as I could, reveling in the taste of him. This was no time for niceties, and I sucked and licked for all I was worth. Timmy didn't seem to mind, though, if his gasps and moans were anything to go by.

I kept my eyes fixed on his writhing form. He was groaning continually now, low and breathless. His skin was hot under mine and his hands tightened in my hair a split second before the sharp bitterness of his spunk flooded my mouth. My senses were filed with him and as I rode out my own sudden orgasm, shooting my pleasure onto the sheets, the universe was filled with nothing but Timmy.

*****

"You know," I told Timmy over breakfast the following morning. "With everything that's happened, I kind of feel sorry for the little weasel."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about Paul," said Timmy with a smile. "I hear he's going to be fine. And Marcel apparently hasn't left his side."

"Huh." I thought about that for a moment. "You know, I don't really see Marcel going in for abstinence."

"Mm," Timmy said through a mouthful of toast. "I think Paul's come to the conclusion that abstinence is overrated."

"That it is," I agreed. "Speaking of which, isn't today Thursday?"

"It is indeed. And this is a leap year."

We both looked at the clock, then at each other. "Still loads of time before two," I pointed out.

"So there is," said Timmy, then raced me back to bed.

THE END


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